Dennis Wheatley - Mayhem in Greece

For a moment, Fortune relented and favoured him. A stream of traffic cut off his enemies. That gave him a good, flying start. Again he plunged through the crowd, scattering people right and left. As he darted between them, he tried to console himself with the thought that if he were caught, they would not now be able to charge him with stealing the brief-case. But by the time he had covered a hundred yards, it struck him that Krajcir might still trump up against him a charge of having stolen money from the agency. As he thought of that, his worst fears were realized. He heard the shrilling of the policeman's whistle. And again the cry was raised: 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'

Desperately he raced on, dodging some groups of pedestrians and thrusting aside the few men who half-heartedly attempted to tackle him, as though all his life he had played rugger with enthusiasm. He was still heading for the Grande Bretagne, although he now had little idea what he was going to do should he succeed in reaching it. The hall porter would certainly not be able or willing to save him from arrest by the police; yet he continued his wild career towards the hotel, as though to get the*e was an end in itself.

The blocks between Stadium Street and Venizelou Street are separated by a number of side streets. In almost every case, as he crossed them, the lights favoured him by letting traffic through that temporarily checked his pursuers. But by the time he reached Gian Smats Street, the last he had to cross before reaching the hotel, a mob of fifty people, headed by the policeman, was close on his heels.

The traffic was now against him. Only some desperate measure could save him from immediate capture. A private car, with two suitcases on its roof, and a man and girl inside, must have run him down if he had attempted to cross the road at that moment. He waited ten seconds. The policeman stretched out a hand to seize him by the collar. At that very instant, he took a flying leap and grabbed the roof rack of the passing car.

It carried him round the corner and, as traffic in Greece takes the right-hand side of the road, in the direction in which he had been heading. The girl screamed and the man cursed him. The car had been moving at a good pace, but its driver applied his brakes and, after fifty yards, brought it to a halt. While being dragged by the car. Robbie's feet had been bumping along the ground. As it pulled up, he let go of the luggage rack, stumbled, regained his balance and ran round in front of it on to the pavement. Right in front of him now was the Grande Bretagne's side entrance, which led to the hotel's banqueting and ball rooms.

Robbie gave a swift glance to his right. Thirty yards away, the policeman was coming on full tilt. He had now been joined by another, and they headed an excited crowd of idlers who had taken up the chase. Weil to the front, Robbie glimpsed Cepicka, his scowling face now bright red with his exertions. Robbie knew that he could not hope for protection from the management of the hotel, but his nine days' stay there had given him a thorough knowledge of its ground-floor geography. With the new lead he had gained, he thought there was a sporting chance that he would be able to elude his pursuers in its maze of rooms and passages and, perhaps, find a hiding place before they could catch up with him.

As he dived for the big, glass double doors, the hall porter on duty there was just coming out. They collided violently. Robbie was swung round so that he faced towards Constitution Square. Suddenly his glance lit on a familiar sight. His uncle's Rolls was standing a few yards in front of the car on to which he had leapt. Beside it, staring at him in amazement, stood his uncle's chauffeur, Tompkins.

Thrusting the hall porter aside, he sprinted towards the Rolls. Tompkins, an old soldier with all the prejudices against 'foreigners' and their police of a Briton of his class, sized up the situation instantly. His not to reason why, his boss' nephew was in trouble. In a brace of shakes, he had both doors of the car open, and had scrambled into the driver's seat. With a gasp,

Robbie flung himself into the back and slammed the door behind him.

The clutch slid in, the big car slid forward. Robbie righted himself on the seat, leaned forward and cried huskily: 'Well done, Tompkins! Back to the Embassy, and for God's sake step on it.'

'O.K., Mr. Robbie,' came the unruffled reply. None of the servants at the Embassy ever called Robbie 'Mr. Grenn'. Perhaps it was his never-failing cheerfulness, simplicity and kindliness, but it never occurred to them to condemn the useless life he led, and they took a far better view of him than did his uncle.

Squirming round, Robbie looked out through the back window of the car. What he saw made him bite his lip. He was not out of the wood yet. The two policemen had commandeered the car on which he had taken such a risky lift, and it was giving chase. Behind it, Cepicka was just jumping into a taxi, and another car had made a quick turn out of the line of oncoming traffic, with the evident intention of joining in the hunt. If the Rolls was checked by traffic lights and those cars came up with it, he might still be cornered and arrested.

The Rolls had shot across the corner of Constitution Square and entered the broad Vasilissis Sofias Boulevard, so it was now a straight run and only a quarter of a mile to go. But a lorry emerged from one of the turnings opposite the Royal Palace, forcing Tompkins to slow down. Holding his breath, Robbie continued to stare out of the back window. The driver of the car carrying the policemen was crouched over the wheel, getting every ounce out of his engine. It raced up to within a few yards of the Rolls. Robbie could clearly see the face of the girl beside the driver. It was white and wide-eyed with excitement. One of the policemen was leaning out of the left rear window, yelling at them to halt.

Tompkins swerved the Rolls and it passed the tail of the lorry, missing it by inches. As they cleared it, he put his foot hard down on the accelerator and the great silver car leapt forward again. Now that they had left the centre of the city behind, there was little traffic. In less than a minute, they covered the few hundred yards that brought them to within a stone's throw of the Embassy.

'Not the front entrance,' called Robbie quickly. 'Round to the garage. We can drive straight in there.'

'Just as you wish, Mr. Robbie; though you've no need to worry. We're well ahead of them now,' Tompkins replied with a laugh.

The Rolls sped on, passed the little Byzantine church on the corner, turned into Ploutarchou Street and, turning again, ran smoothly up the slope leading to the garage. Robbie slipped out to open the gates. He was still pulling them wide when the two pursuing cars and the taxi drew up in the street. Their occupants all got out and formed a little cluster on the pavement. Scowling

d 93 angrily, the two policemen demanded that Robbie go with them to the station. Cepicka, speaking atrocious Greek, joined in with threats and curses, while the people in the last car, who had joined the chase for fun, stood by, goggle-eyed, to witness the outcome of the matter.

Robbie only smiled and shook his head. He knew, and the police knew, that he was now technically on British soil. They dared not infringe diplomatic privilege by coming in and removing him forcibly.

Tompkins ran the car into the garage and Robbie helped him shut the gates. The little crowd outside was now getting back into its cars, but Robbie was no longer smiling. He had escaped by taking sanctuary in the Embassy but, if he put a foot outside it, he would again make himself liable to arrest. He dared not leave it. And how was he going to explain to his uncle his presence there?

9

Midnight Conference